


we have been heaven blessed

by UnAmusings



Series: Heaven Blessed [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Communication, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Married Couple, Massage, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 14:50:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19359199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnAmusings/pseuds/UnAmusings
Summary: The sun is just set beyond the horizon, and the room is lit by the fire of their hearth. Long days have led to shorter nights, leaving the dark hours of rest so few. Tormund can feel the exhaustion in his own bones. In the corner of the room, Jon is swaying on his feet, one hand on the small of his back and the other struggling with his pelts.





	we have been heaven blessed

**Author's Note:**

> Title from " _Isn't She Lovely_ ," by Stevie Wonder. Recommend listening to it while reading!
> 
> Unbeta'd.

The sun is just set beyond the horizon, and the room is lit by the fire of their hearth. Long days have led to shorter nights, leaving the dark hours of rest so few. Tormund can feel the exhaustion in his own bones. In the corner of the room, Jon is swaying on his feet, one hand on the small of his back and the other struggling with his pelts.

With a feather light touch, he spun Jon around. The way Jon's eyes drooped, struggling to stay open as he followed Tormund's wordless order, lit a flame deep in the chief's chest. So open was his husband after a long day's work, that even Jon's usual hyper awareness was dulled into a calm lull. Tormund could see it in the swoop of his shoulders, even the way Jon leaned into his hands was a small testament to exhaustion. 

Tormund's fingers pulled and tucked at the laces down Jon's back, unraveling the strain in leather and allowing it to rest. Much easier now that Jon didn't wear his usual corset of gear, only enough to keep it from falling from his body. The vest fell to the floor of their hut, freeing the undershirt.

Jon moaned, resting his head back onto Tormund's shoulder. It was practically an invitation, the larger man peppered kisses from the valley behind the collarbone to the nape at Jon's ear. His husband grabbed his hand–Tormund thrilled to see how much smaller Jon's was–and brought it to his tummy. The swell was getting bigger by the day, the taut skin was warm under the thin material.

Before Tormund pulled away, he sucked a darker kiss where neck and shoulder met, loving the deep purple placed on such pale skin. He stripped his own pelts, as well as the rest of Jon's, until they were both in their underclothes. With a lingering of his fingers, Tormund sat against the board of their bed with his legs spread. His husband's soft smile was a flutter in his heart. Jon grabs a small vial next to their bed before sitting in the empty space, his back pressed to Tormund's chest. 

The chief nuzzled into the snow wet locks, taking his free hand to open the ointment in Jon's hand. Oiled fingers rub into the exposed skin at the underside of the tummy. With a sigh of relief along with a tightening of their clasped hands, Jon pulls up his shirt to expose the curve of his belly. 

"The midwives say I carry big," Jon says, "I think that's just your fault."

Tormund laughs, continuing to massage down to his husband's hips. "Big and strong. Can't complain."

"Of course not, you're not the one carrying him," Jon huffs, a high lilt to it as Tormund digs into a sore spot. Jon released his hand, fine fingers rubbing at the ache in Tormund's knee that had been there since the Battle of Winterfell.

With his own hand now free, Tormund dug into Jon's other hip, applying steady pressure. Jon bites down a whimper, arching. He watches the way his husband's tummy juts out, highlighting just how large the child whelping is. The oils reflect the light of their hearth.

Under Tormund's palms, he can still feel the warrior's muscle, the body of a fighter tested true, but there's a softness now. A curve to those hips as Jon's body preps itself for a different kind of challenge, and a plushness at his chest from no longer swinging a sword. His hands are calloused, not from a weapon, but from working the plots alongside Tormund. 

There were challenges, at times. In the beginning, when they had found out, Jon would sit in front of their hearth at night, hands pressed on a still flat tummy, and a bright glisten in his eyes. At others, Jon would wake up to Tormund sitting on the floor, a weapon not too far away. Often, they would talk about who they'd lost, about who they missed, about who they once were. Other times, no words were needed, just a kiss that led to much more. 

The memories are like fire in his loins. Tormund would take Jon from behind, one hand cupping a gentle bump, the other clenched in the sheets next to the sprawl of Jon's hair. His husband's thighs would quiver as he moaned into the pillows, while Tormund would get drunk on the sound of each hiccup and pitched yell. When Jon got bigger, to the point that his belly would brush the bed, the smaller man would mount him, riding Tormund's cock like he was born to it. 

_Today is not one of those days,_ Tormund hums to himself. Days such as this are his favorite, when Jon is pliant but unwilling to admit how tired he is. Every wall knocked down to let Tormund spoil him and soothe every aching joint. To ease him of worries. Jon won't confess how his body feels foreign. Or, how he feels like he shouldn't _want_ to live a life he feels undeserving of. 

As his husband, Tormund doesn't need words. He can see it in the way Jon looks at the children. The reserved yearning that is impossible to conceal, despite his best efforts. Or, when they bathe, Jon traces faint marks that travel up towards his belly button. Sighing into his husband's hair, Tormund hands knead Jon's legs, tense from use all day, then travel inward to the soft skin of Jon's inner thigh. There are no words that could possibly encompass what Jon needs to hear, or Tormund wants to say. 

"You sound so sure the babe's a boy." 

By now, Jon is massaging his calf, "Instinct, really."

"Don'really care what they are, so long as you're both healthy."

Tormund feels the smile on Jon's face, despite not seeing a thing beyond black curls. Jon stops rubbing circles to grab Tormund's hand from inside his thigh to the top of his belly. The chief is confused for barely a moment until he feels a flutter against his palm. Then another kick moves Tormund's hand. 

"I think we're just fine."

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write something fluffy thanks. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
